by Len Deighton
The DG looked up quickly and studied Stuart’s face closely for any sign of intended rudeness. Having failed to discover any, he said, ‘No, Stuart. At the present time, I do not.’
‘Father and son are very close, sir.’
‘Never been on a tiger shoot, have you, Stuart?’ The DG rested a hand on the mantelpiece and stared at the fire as a fortune teller might gaze at a crystal ball.
‘No, sir.’
‘You put out a line of beaters in the early morning, and they walk forward kicking up the very devil of a din. The guns are moving towards them, well strung out … on elephants, of course.’
‘Of course.’
The DG turned to face him. ‘Good beaters can get the creatures moving at just the right pace. You don’t want your tigers galloping past.’ The DG drank some of the port they had found him down under the stairs. It was Marks & Spencer’s own label and not the sort of vintage the DG favoured, but he sipped it without complaint. ‘There’s usually some bloody fool who fires too soon. He fires towards the beaters, you see. That’s not the idea at all. You’ve got to let your tiger come past; shoot him as he passes, or even after he’s passed. But never while he’s still coming towards you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Or Timmy Tiger goes back and mauls one of your beaters, Stuart. You see what I mean, don’t you?’
‘You mean Stein.’
‘Indeed I do, Stuart. I mean Mr Stein, our Timmy Tiger.’ The DG sat down on the big sofa, stretched his feet out and ran a hand back through his ruffled hair.
‘You’d better tell me what’s on your mind, my boy. I can see something is troubling you.’
Stuart sat down carefully in the armchair and balanced his drink on the armrest. ‘I’d like to be transferred to some other operation, sir.’
‘Transferred?’ There could be no doubt that the DG was surprised. ‘This is the most important operation we have going at the present moment. Don’t you realize that the reason I keep looking at that damned clock on the mantelpiece is because the PM will be expecting me in the ante-room of the Cabinet Office, tomorrow at 8.30 A.M., ready to tell her the latest news? She’ll be off to Africa on the 30th. She insists we clear up this business before she goes. I’m under pressure, Stuart.’
‘Yes, I understand that, sir. But I think you could find someone more suited to the job. I’m at a disadvantage; Stein and Breslow both know that I’m working for this department.’
‘You’re not being entirely frank with me, Stuart. Is this something to do with you and Jennifer? You know I never interfere. I’ve never taken sides. I think I can safely claim that.’
Stuart did not reply. His father-in-law had interfered with his marriage right from the very beginning and as for his claim never to have taken sides … Stuart was simply at a loss for words. ‘It’s nothing to do with me and Jennifer, sir.’
‘You treated my daughter badly, Stuart. I’m speaking man to man now, of course. Your behaviour was unforgivable and I’ll never forget what Jennifer told us the night we took her back home. You’ve knocked about the world, Stuart, and I dare say a man’s no worse for that. But you married a child and made her suffer. The sooner the divorce comes through the better.’
‘It’s nothing to do with Jennifer or our marriage,’ said Stuart. ‘It’s this operation. This afternoon Stein was in a state of near collapse. He’d been to that house and seen two decapitated men. From what I understand, they had their hands cut off too.’
‘Perfectly correct, Stuart.’
‘From the last report I got, the police have still not been informed of the crime. Our people have been in and out, and even taken photos. Stein accused me of arranging the murders. I’m no longer so sure we didn’t do so, and I don’t like that.’
The DG nodded and sipped some of his drink. ‘You’ve been in some scrapes, Stuart. I looked through your dossier when Jennifer first met you. There was the time when we had to get you out of Turin in the very devil of a hurry. And your file has an embargo slip for two or three countries where you are still facing charges, I understand?’
‘I didn’t hack any heads off, if that’s what you are implying, Director.’
‘I’m implying nothing, Stuart,’ said the DG calmly, ‘I’m stating facts. If you want to contest what is on your dossier, this would be an excellent opportunity to do so.’
‘I’m not disputing it.’
‘We didn’t choose you to captain a junior school tennis team, Stuart. You knew this might be rough. I told you so myself, if I remember rightly.’
‘You did, sir.’
There was a long silence. Then the DG said, ‘When did you first hear about the killing of the two men?’
‘Wednesday evening, 18 July, that is, about eleven o’clock in the evening. I was at home. A courier came with a verbal message.’
‘About the same time that I was informed,’ said the DG and scratched his ear. ‘I was at a dinner party in Hampstead. I came back here to the office. I thought of sending for you but I wasn’t sure it was necessary.’
Stuart did nothing, waiting while the DG fidgeted about, trying to decide how much secret information he should be given. ‘You believe the department had those men killed?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing has happened.’
‘No, it wouldn’t be the first time,’ agreed the DG. He wrapped his overcoat across his legs, as if he were suddenly feeling the cold.
‘I saw them alive,’ said Stuart. ‘Last Monday. They were little more than kids … I liked them.’
‘You reported to me that they were delinquents.’
‘Just talk,’ said Stuart. ‘They were full of talk. They weren’t dangerous.’
‘One of them was taking high-grade information out of an important German computer. Not exactly harmless, would you say?’ The DG maintained an unruffled and almost jovial manner. Stuart felt he was being lured into some sort of verbal trap but could not see what it was likely to be.
‘Taking information out of a computer isn’t yet a capital crime,’ said Stuart evenly.
‘Depends where you are,’ said the DG. He sniffed loudly, and sipped his port. ‘I wouldn’t give much for the chances of anyone who tried that sort of antic in Russia. I’d think it probably is a capital crime there.’
‘In any case, sir, I’d like to be assigned to something different.’
‘Request refused,’ said the DG without hesitation. It was as if he’d prepared himself for this demand.
‘Refused, sir?’
‘We can’t have field operatives changing their assignments just because they begin to imagine that the department is not handling matters with the sort of deference and decorum that they think necessary. Drink up, Stuart, and have another. Then I must rush. No, we can’t start changing round like that. In next to no time we’d have chaps complaining that they didn’t like the climate in Darwin, or wanted to evade an irate husband in Rio.’ The DG smiled, and touched his bow-tie to be sure it was not crooked.
‘Did you order those men killed, sir?’
‘Certainly not, Stuart. It’s not my style. I would have thought you’d have known that by now. How long have you been working here with me – nearly ten years, as I recall?’
‘Eleven, sir.’
‘One of these days I must try that stuff you are so fond of; pure malt, isn’t it? It always smells so much like medicine to me.’ The DG brought the bottle over and poured a new measure into Stuart’s glass. ‘Eleven years, is it? Time flies past. I can remember you coming over here. You had a bit of trouble over at MI5 as I recall … an argument with a constable, was it?’
‘I knocked a police superintendent unconscious,’ said Stuart.
The DG gave him a cold smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was it. I knew it was some silly difficulty like that. They had a lot of ex-policemen running desks at the Home Office at that time. I could never understand why the DG over there didn’t just straighten it out between you.’
‘I refused to apologize,’ said Stuart. They both knew that Sir Sydney had been through his dossier with meticulous care, not just the abstract but the whole thing: bank accounts, medical and dental charts, confidential assessments, psychiatrist’s and school reports. Sir Sydney probably knew more about that punch Stuart had thrown at the police superintendent than the superintendent who had suffered it.
‘Refused to apologize.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, of course. A matter of principle, was it? I’ve always said that matters of principle are the very last things that should provoke a man to seeking recourse in the law courts. The same might well be said of the recourse to violence.’ A milk truck passed, its engine roaring and the bottles rattling as it changed gear at the traffic lights.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘And men change,’ said the DG. ‘We all did silly things when we were young. Did I ever tell you about the time when I dismantled all the bicycles at Winchester?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anyway, I mustn’t bore you.’
Stuart had not pursued his demand for a change of assignment. His dislike of this sort of bullying made his mind turn to thoughts of resigning altogether.
The DG seemed to read his mind. ‘Don’t think of resigning, Stuart. There would be all the continuation money to pay back.’
Stuart remembered the lump sum he had received two years ago when he decided to sign the contract for a further ten years’ engagement. It had seemed an enormous amount of money at the time, but so much of it just drained away. It would be extremely difficult to repay it. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’d have to sell off your little weekend cottage and so on. Don’t do it, my boy. My wife sold off some fields near where we live in the country. She was sorry afterwards. The way the market is now, it’s better to hold on to property.’ The DG smiled again. He wanted Stuart to know that he had sifted through every available piece of information about his financial affairs. He wanted Stuart to realize right now that there was no alternative to keeping at this job. The last thing he wanted to tell the Prime Minister was that he had just lost his best – or at least his most suitable – field operative. ‘And there could be liabilities arising from the divorce.’ The silence seemed to last for ever.
‘I’ll keep at it,’ said Stuart.
‘Good man,’ said the DG. Now that he had won he could afford to be generous. ‘You’d put us in a devil of a pickle if you wanted to get out now. The PM’s meetings in Lusaka with the Commonwealth Heads of Government will give her a chance to achieve something that every previous PM has failed to do.’
‘You mean a settlement … changes in the Zimbabwe-Rhodesia constitution?’
‘Exactly, Stuart.’ The DG seemed surprised that Stuart knew about the story which was being told interminably in all the papers and news magazines. ‘And I think she’ll do it, Stuart.’
‘She’s had some amazing successes already, sir.’
‘She has. And between you and me, old chap, it’s making her the very devil to work with. A new broom sweeps clean and all that. I have a feeling that if we don’t whitewash old Winnie in just the way that Mrs Thatcher and the Conservative Party have always liked him to be … I think we might be in for the new broom business here. You see what I mean?’ The fire flared as the ball of paper was heated to combustion point. Then the ball of ash lifted gently from the coals and toppled into the hearth.
‘I’m an admirer of Sir Winston myself, sir.’ Stuart drained his glass.
‘Of course you are. We all are! He was a great man. That’s the essence of the matter. We must do a good job on this one because it’s something we all believe in. Luckily, I can assure you that the Hitler Minutes are forgeries. We have to make sure everyone knows it.’
Stuart said nothing. He knew the papers were not forgeries. There would not be such a fuss about forgeries. Perhaps the DG read Stuart’s thoughts for he touched Stuart’s arm and turned him towards the door, as a torpedo might be aimed at an enemy cruiser. Stuart walked to the door and turned for a moment before opening it. The DG looked up and raised his eyebrows. They were big bushy eyebrows surmounting a large craggy face.
‘Yes, Stuart?’
‘If, in the line of duty, you had to give orders for the expedient demise of two men, you’d not necessarily feel you had to tell me about that, would you?’
The house was still, and there was no sound of traffic. The DG stood for a moment and pondered the question, as if a profound philosophical principle were at stake. He rolled on his toes like a dancing master about to demonstrate a particularly tricky step. ‘I would use my judgement, Stuart.’
Chapter 29
By Monday, 23 July, it was becoming increasingly easy for Sir Sydney Ryden to believe that fate was working against him. He dined that evening at the Beefsteak, an old-established gentleman’s club consisting of little more than a small ante-room, an office, a few armchairs – providing a view of some public lavatories and a war memorial – and a narrow room in which members and their guests dined, all at the same long table.
Fortune placed Sir Sydney next to a bearded TV scriptwriter with decided views upon the government’s promised cuts in the civil service. ‘Take the Home Office,’ said the scriptwriter, reaching for a silver-plated cow which had been emptied of milk. ‘Half the people there are making tea whenever I have been inside the building. You are not at the Home Office, are you?’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Sir Sydney gravely.
The scriptwriter tilted the silver cow so that he could use its nose to draw patterns on the table cloth. ‘I did a documentary there last year. Disgusting waste … We said that in the programme, of course.’
‘Most interesting,’ said Sir Sydney. He glanced round to see if his host had yet escaped from the man who had button-holed him with a request about joining the club committee.
‘What part of the civil service are you with?’ the scriptwriter asked, having failed to discover this by means of indirect remarks.
‘The Foreign Office,’ said Sir Sydney Ryden.
‘They are helping us with a programme we’ll air next April,’ said the scriptwriter. He confidently assumed that everyone was fascinated by a behind-the-scenes glimpse of television. Sir Sydney sipped his port and hoped the young man would talk to his host and leave him alone. He would have made his escape, except that there was still a small matter of paying his share of the cost of the cigars.
‘… and the Germans had put all their gold down into this salt mine …’ he suddenly heard the scriptwriter saying. ‘The greater proportion of the entire German gold reserves and God knows what documents and stuff …’ Sir Sydney’s stomach tightened and the port suddenly became vinegar in his mouth. He turned to the bearded man and nodded.
‘Really. And this was your idea?’ said Sir Sydney encouragingly.
‘Some looney historian from one of those dud universities in the Midlands. A professor he was …’ The bearded man laughed. ‘You should have seen him. I wouldn’t have given him a job as a cleaner. But he had the stuff all right. Unusable, mind you. Scriptwriting for TV is a very specialized technique. The Beeb gave him a few quid and sent him packing. The poor old fool was furious but there was nothing he could do about it. “Sue the BBC,” I told him, “and see where that gets you.” One of my people took over the project and started it rolling so that we can air it on the anniversary of the end of the war. That’s when the Yanks got to the mine and found the loot there.’
Sir Sydney relit his cigar, noting with some satisfaction that the flaming match did not tremble. ‘Tell me how your script begins,’ he said, this being the simplest way to have the story retold while he gave his full attention to it.
By now the scriptwriter was steering the silver cow round the salt and pepper so that it left tracks in the table cloth. ‘It’s not my script,’ he said. ‘I’m what they call a script editor. I phone up any writers I think might be able to handle it. We’ve had a four-page outline. The actual script won’t be ready until next month, a
s I remember.’
‘It must be an awfully interesting job,’ said Sir Sydney and gallantly sat through another half-hour of finer points of script editing until the subject of the salt mine was quite, quite cold.
The next morning Sir Sydney arranged an urgent meeting with the assistant director at the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions. The DPP is the official department which advises law-enforcement agencies about the legal aspects of serious criminal proceedings. The assistant director promised Sir Sydney that they would support an action against the BBC or any of its employees, and any other person concerned, should they not co-operate with MI6 in its endeavours to suppress the publication of material which was protected by the Official Secrets Act, as clearly this was.
On that same day Sir Sydney Ryden arranged a meeting with the chairman of the BBC board of governors. Without going into any detail, he explained that the revelation of certain aspects of the recovery of the treasure in the salt mine would not be in the public interest.
In the absence of the BBC’s Director General, who was indisposed, the chairman got Sir Sydney Ryden’s permission to bring the head of external services (who was the ranking executive) into the meeting.
Sir Sydney produced a map that one of the MI6 cartographers had prepared overnight. It showed the city of Frankfurt, and the autobahn north which led through Alsfeld and Bad Hersfeld, and the convoy route on the small side road off the autobahn. It showed too the present-day border, with its barbed wire, man traps, minefields, searchlights and machine-gun posts.
‘Director Janecke and Director Thomas of the Reichsbank were the two who handled all the gold in Nazi Germany,’ said Sir Sydney Ryden. ‘I have here some of the documents which show the shipments made to the Kaiseroda mineshaft at Merkers during those final weeks of the war. You see the signatures.’
The two BBC men looked at the map and the border of East Germany which encompassed the tiny town of Merkers.
‘This is the document from the Reichswirtschaftsministerium which assigned space in certain selected mines for the protection of such treasures as they considered most valuable,’ said Sir Sydney passing it across the desk.